jumping, his weight was going upward, so his body doesn’t go under the car, but pastes against it, right in front of me, almost hitting the wind-shield, draped there like a dead deer being brought home by a triumphant sportsman.
I slam on the brakes, and he slides down the front of the car. I see his hands clutching, scrabbling for some hold, but there is none. The car is still moving, though more slowly, and he goes under it, and I feel the heavy bumps as we drive over him.
Now I brake to a stop. Now I turn on the headlights, and switch into reverse gear, so the backup lights will come on, and I see him three times, in all three mirrors, the inside mirror, the one outside to my left, the one all the way over there outside to my right, I see him three times, and in all three mirrors he’s moving.
Oh, God, no. He has to stop. We can’t go on like this. He’s rolling over, he’s trying to rise.
I’m already in reverse. Now I accelerate, and I close my eyes, and I feel the
thump
and the
thump
, and I slam on the brakes and skid, and think no, please, I’m going to hit a parked car, but I don’t.
I open my eyes. I look out front, and he’s there in the glare of my headlights, in the rain, one arm moving on the pavement, fingers scratching on the pavement. His hat is gone. He’s crumpled, mostly facedown, and his forehead is against the pavement, his head twitching in slow fits back and forth.
This has to stop
now
. I shift into Drive, I drive slowly forward, I aim at that head. Ba-
thump
, the front left tire, yes. Ba-
thump
, the rear left tire, yes.
I stop. I shift into reverse, and the backup lights come on. In three mirrors, he doesn’t move.
I’m weeping when I get back to the motel, still weeping. I feel so weak I can barely steer, hardly press my foot against the accelerator and, at last, the brake.
The Luger is still in my pocket. It weighs me down on the right side, dragging down on me so that I stumble as I move from the Voyager to the door to my room. Then the Luger bangs against my hand, interfering with me, while I try to get into my pants pocket for the key, the key to the room.
At last. I have the key, I get it into the lock, I open the door. All of this is mostly by feel, because I’m sobbing, my eyes are full of tears, everything swims. I push the door open, and the room that was going to be warm and homey is underwater, afloat, cold and wet because of my tears. I pull the key out of the door, push the door closed, stagger across the room. I’m stripping off my clothes, just leaving them anywhere on the floor.
The sobs have been with me since I made the U-turn on Nether Street and drove carefully around the body in the middle of the pavement. The sobs hurt my throat, they constrict my chest. The tears sting my eyes. My nose is full, I can barely breathe. My arms and legs are heavy, they ache, as though I’d been pummeled for a long time with soft clubs.
A shower, won’t that help? A shower always helps. Here in Dawson’s Motel, the bathroom contains an old-fashioned clawfoot tub. Above it, sometime later, a shower nozzle was added to protrude from the wall, and a small ring to hang a shower curtain. When you step in there and turn on the water, if you move an inch in any direction you touch the cold wet shower curtain.
But I’m not moving. I stand in the flow of hot water, eyes closed, tears still streaming, throat and chest still in pain, but the hot water slowly does its work. It cleanses me, and it soothes me, and at last I turn off the water, push the too-close shower curtain aside, step out, and use all the thin towels to dry myself.
I’ve stopped weeping now. Now I’m merely exhausted. The bedside clock-radio says 12:47. Exactly one hour ago I left this room, to go kill Everett Dynes, and now I’m back, and I’ve done it. And I’m exhausted, I could sleep for a thousand years.
I get into bed, and switch off the light, and I don’t sleep. I’m so weary I could
I slam on the brakes, and he slides down the front of the car. I see his hands clutching, scrabbling for some hold, but there is none. The car is still moving, though more slowly, and he goes under it, and I feel the heavy bumps as we drive over him.
Now I brake to a stop. Now I turn on the headlights, and switch into reverse gear, so the backup lights will come on, and I see him three times, in all three mirrors, the inside mirror, the one outside to my left, the one all the way over there outside to my right, I see him three times, and in all three mirrors he’s moving.
Oh, God, no. He has to stop. We can’t go on like this. He’s rolling over, he’s trying to rise.
I’m already in reverse. Now I accelerate, and I close my eyes, and I feel the
thump
and the
thump
, and I slam on the brakes and skid, and think no, please, I’m going to hit a parked car, but I don’t.
I open my eyes. I look out front, and he’s there in the glare of my headlights, in the rain, one arm moving on the pavement, fingers scratching on the pavement. His hat is gone. He’s crumpled, mostly facedown, and his forehead is against the pavement, his head twitching in slow fits back and forth.
This has to stop
now
. I shift into Drive, I drive slowly forward, I aim at that head. Ba-
thump
, the front left tire, yes. Ba-
thump
, the rear left tire, yes.
I stop. I shift into reverse, and the backup lights come on. In three mirrors, he doesn’t move.
I’m weeping when I get back to the motel, still weeping. I feel so weak I can barely steer, hardly press my foot against the accelerator and, at last, the brake.
The Luger is still in my pocket. It weighs me down on the right side, dragging down on me so that I stumble as I move from the Voyager to the door to my room. Then the Luger bangs against my hand, interfering with me, while I try to get into my pants pocket for the key, the key to the room.
At last. I have the key, I get it into the lock, I open the door. All of this is mostly by feel, because I’m sobbing, my eyes are full of tears, everything swims. I push the door open, and the room that was going to be warm and homey is underwater, afloat, cold and wet because of my tears. I pull the key out of the door, push the door closed, stagger across the room. I’m stripping off my clothes, just leaving them anywhere on the floor.
The sobs have been with me since I made the U-turn on Nether Street and drove carefully around the body in the middle of the pavement. The sobs hurt my throat, they constrict my chest. The tears sting my eyes. My nose is full, I can barely breathe. My arms and legs are heavy, they ache, as though I’d been pummeled for a long time with soft clubs.
A shower, won’t that help? A shower always helps. Here in Dawson’s Motel, the bathroom contains an old-fashioned clawfoot tub. Above it, sometime later, a shower nozzle was added to protrude from the wall, and a small ring to hang a shower curtain. When you step in there and turn on the water, if you move an inch in any direction you touch the cold wet shower curtain.
But I’m not moving. I stand in the flow of hot water, eyes closed, tears still streaming, throat and chest still in pain, but the hot water slowly does its work. It cleanses me, and it soothes me, and at last I turn off the water, push the too-close shower curtain aside, step out, and use all the thin towels to dry myself.
I’ve stopped weeping now. Now I’m merely exhausted. The bedside clock-radio says 12:47. Exactly one hour ago I left this room, to go kill Everett Dynes, and now I’m back, and I’ve done it. And I’m exhausted, I could sleep for a thousand years.
I get into bed, and switch off the light, and I don’t sleep. I’m so weary I could
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